Justice in Slow Motion (Drexel Pierce Book 3)

by Patrick Kanouse

  Drexel shook his hand. “Detective Drexel Pierce. I’m here to discuss one of your clients, Victoria Lopez.”

  Javier pursed his lips and nodded once solemnly. “Come with me.” He led the detective through a set of doors and down through a row of cubicles to an office that lined the exterior windows. Javier’s view was of the buildings across the alley on Michigan Avenue, blocking his view into Sir Georg Solti Garden. Javier’s office was minimalistic. A desk. A computer. Two chairs in front of the desk. Three more chairs and a table in the corner. And a set of bookshelves along one wall, filled with books on Illinois and Chicago laws and legal codes. The lawyer gestured for Drexel to sit, and Javier, unbuttoning his coat, sat behind his desk. An assistant walked in. Javier requested a coffee and asked if Drexel wanted something.

  “A coffee would be great,” he said.

  She looked at him and asked, “An espresso? Cappuccino?”

  He smiled. “A regular coffee is fine. Thanks.”

  After the assistant walked out, Javier said, “I was very sorry to read about Ms. Lopez’s death.”

  “You read it in the paper?”

  Javier nodded. “This morning.”

  “You didn’t hear from her husband, a Hank Fulsom?”

  “I heard from him as well. He found my card as he was going through some of his wife’s belongings. An unpleasant call.”

  “He’s not a client, is he?”

  “No. Ms. Lopez was my client.”

  “What was unpleasant about it?”

  “Other than him accusing me of, I quote, fucking her?” Javier shook his head. “My response was a curt, ‘No.’ But that didn’t stop him. I told him I was not able to talk to him about Ms. Lopez’s reason for visiting me. He yelled. Called me any number of names. Threatened even. Threats are frightening in light of what happened to Ms. Lopez.” Javier waved in the assistant, who placed a coffee mug on his desk and gave Drexel a mug, as well. She set a small platter of sweeteners and cream at the front of the desk within reach of the detective. She walked out and closed the door behind her. Javier continued, “Ms. Lopez explicitly told me not to discuss anything with her husband. But I will tell you she was filing for divorce.”

  “We found copies of the papers on her computer.”

  “She hadn’t signed them yet.”

  “How long has she had them?”

  “I’d have to look up the exact date, but about a month now.”

  “Is that a long time for someone to not sign?”

  Javier swiped his thumb across his chin a couple of times. “Most people think the difficulty around signing divorce papers is signing that final agreement. The one that actually severs the bond and legally ends the marriage. But the real challenge, the real struggle is for the person when she has to sign her intent to divorce. That emotional threshold is where you say, ‘Yes, I want a divorce.’ So four weeks isn’t unusual. You know she was abused, right?”

  Drexel said, “I’ve seen the reports.” He tore open a package of sugar and dumped it into the coffee.

  “I strongly encouraged her to call the police. She was adamant that I did not. I did encourage her to find a shelter before she filed. That she needed to get somewhere safe. And given Mr. Fulsom’s inclination to violence, I suggested she warn her friends and family. At the same time, she was clear that she couldn’t abandon her restaurant. A shelter was okay for sleeping, but she couldn’t hide there. And Mr. Fulsom knows where she works. But she was also clear that he wasn’t going to take the restaurant away from her either.” The lawyer frowned. “I think she was ready to sign her intent. She deserved better.”

  Drexel took a drink of the strong coffee. “Was there anything unusual about the divorce? Or the plans she had for it?”

  “No. Standard in legal terms. She did want to protect the restaurant and prevent him from getting any portion of it or its profits. She indicated her husband had used the winnings from that show she did to buy things for himself. Did you know he bought a car, a Bentley, with the money Ms. Lopez won?”

  “Yes. The father was quite irate about it.”

  “Do you know how much a Bentley costs?”

  Drexel tilted his head to the side and squinted a bit. “No. I haven’t looked it up yet. I know it’s a luxury automobile.”

  “Bentley makes maybe ten thousand cars a year. Fen—Albert—one of the founding partners of this firm has one. It’ll be years before I would think of buying one. Their prices pretty much start at two hundred thousand.”

  “That’s nearly all of her winnings after the government took its cut.”

  “Yes. Her name and that show and David Hussain greased the wheels for loans. She wanted to protect the restaurant.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Can’t say that I blame her on that.”

  “How were you planning on protecting the restaurant?”

  “My plan was to argue that he’s already received the profits from the business in advance—in the form of using all the post-tax winnings for a luxury automobile. A bit of a stretch, but certainly a sympathetic argument, particularly if I tossed in the photos of Ms. Lopez’s bruises. I was hoping to have it all nailed down before having a judge sign it.”

  “How do you think he might have reacted?”

  “Well, married, Mr. Fulsom can basically use the money coming in from the restaurant at will. Divorced, he’s getting a check monthly that’s only a portion of the profits—if that. Right now, he’s drinking out of the water hose full blast and the finalization of the divorce turns that to a trickle. And knowing what I know about him, he wouldn’t be happy about that at all. Not at all.”

  Chapter 9

  Carrying a styrofoam box of a spicy tuna roll and two pieces of nigiri tuna, Drexel walked up to his desk, set it down, and swung off his messenger bag. He sat down and flipped open the box, pulling out the bamboo chopsticks, pulling them apart, and rubbing the tips against each other.

  “God, I don’t know how you eat that.” Martin Doggett rapped his knuckles on the desk. “It’s raw for chrissakes.”

  Drexel looked up at the detective, a legend for a perfect clearance rate all the way back in 1998. “You ever going to retire?”

  Martin let an evil grin spread across his face. “They’ll be carrying me out in a body bag.” He pounded on the desk again and laughed before walking away.

  Drexel shook his head. He admired Martin’s investigative skills—the man had taught him a lot during the first six months of mentoring in the Homicide unit, in addition to his relentless hazing skills. But the man was infuriating, at least to Drexel who bristled against even the most minor injustices.

  He turned his attention to the computer. He clicked on the email message from Daniela with the subject line, “The 911 call.” The call was brief in terms of dialogue. For the first couple of minutes, the operator tried to calm Esme down, obtained the address, and found out why she was calling. Only when the first police showed up and confirmed their presence did the call end.

  He closed the email and opened up a browser. He typed in Victoria Lopez and Chicago. A series of links came back, including reviews of Fling, a profile in Chicago, and links to the America’s Next Great Chef episodes. He clicked the profile link, which bounced him to the Chicago magazine’s website. A photo of Vickie in her white chef’s jacket filled the top of the screen. She smiled, a bit awkwardly at the camera. Her long chestnut hair was pulled back into a pony tail, diamond earrings sparkled. She crossed her arms and turned slightly to the right. He recognized the background as the Fling dining room. Below that photo, a set of three smaller ones spread across the screen—all capturing a moment of her laughing. The photographer probably made a joke and continued snapping. She seemed gregarious in these more candid shots. Natural and at-ease with herself.

  The article by Joseph Corden started off with where Fling got its name. Quoting Vickie, “It was a
joke originally. I was trying to come up with something that resonated, something with pizzazz. But nothing was coming up. So I was writing down concepts I wanted for the restaurant. Things like organic and stuff. And so I wrote these words in this order. Fresh. Local. Inspired. Nutritious. Grub. And I saw it. F. L. I. N. G. And I thought, ‘Eating a great meal is liking having a fling, isn’t it?’ You’re there. You’re in the moment. You indulge. It’s a one-night stand that’s worth remembering.”

  She was a homegrown product of Chicago, who found her passion for food in her teens. A troubled youth growing up in Pilsen in the Lower West Side gave her a chance encounter with the man who would later become her mentor: David Hussain. Hussain, the article mentions, was himself saved from criminal gang activity by cooking, so he had started an after-school cooking program with Chicago public schools. Vickie participated and found something she loved. After high-school, she joined, with her parents’ blessing, Hussain’s growing culinary empire in Chicago, starting at The Village Eatery, a place in Little Village—also called by locals La Villita—southwest of Pilsen. She started as a line cook, but she worked all the jobs: bussing, serving, hosting, expediting. The article again, ‘Chef [Hussain] saw something in me. It’s like he knew I wanted to start my own restaurant before I did. So he made sure I had a grounding in all the jobs. So when the time came, I was prepared. Not that I liked it at the time.’ Lopez laughed, a broad, sweeping laugh that brought in the entire room and seemed to give it a light it had not possessed.”

  A photo in the body of the article showed David Hussain and Vickie standing together. He was about a foot taller than her, with Mediterranean coloring: olive skin, dark eyes, dark brown hair. He wore black, thick-rimmed glasses with rectangular lenses. In the photo, he had his arm around Vickie’s shoulder. It seemed very father-daughter.

  Corden then asked about the show, America’s Next Great Chef. “Lopez laughed again and shook her head. She gestured to the room. ‘This wouldn’t have been possible without it.’ She laughed once more. ‘But the thing started as a joke. I made an audition tape as a spoof. Then my friend, Tammy, she sent the thing in. Next thing I know, I’m getting a call from the producers.’” She never thought she would win, and the whole experience was surreal, as if she watched herself from above. Corden asked about an argument during the show, “I asked her about the infamous argument in episode 10, ‘Battle Royale.’ Lopez frowned and shook her head. ‘I just lost it. I couldn’t take it anymore, and I lost it.’ I asked her if she was surprised by the response. ‘After it happened, I thought, oh god, the fans are going to hate me. But they didn’t. The response was amazing. So much support and so much love.’ She wiped a tear from her eye.”

  The article acknowledged her post-victory on the show and how it led up to the opening of Fling, which at the time of the article was a week away. She had reservations for weeks before it even opened. Drexel scratched his chin. Not a single mention of Hank at all in the article. Her mentor. Her friend. Her father and mother. But no husband.

  Drexel clicked back to the initial search results to follow the path to the reviews of Fling. The first two in the results were from the Tribune and the Sun-Times. He bounced the mouse back and forth between the two before clicking on the Tribune review, titled “Fling and Regret” by Gabrielle Laconi:

  The interior of Fling with its lofty ceiling, dark wood, and lush cushioned seats runs at odds with its name. A word that suggests something brief but memorable. A cherished memory of a one-night stand with all the gusto of youthful romanticism.

  I looked at the menu and its minimalistic descriptions as if they were a mystery. Pork belly with a sweet and sour bourbon glaze, bacon braised kale, and onion rings only served to heighten my expectations. Here was Chicago on a plate, blue collar, white collar, and history prepared. But I get ahead of myself, anticipating what comes next.

  With the arrival of olives in a white shallow bowl with pickled garlic and onion comes the foreshadowing of tragedy. I don’t understand this dish. Olives are pickled. And the garlic and onion overpower any delight I might find in them. And I think, how are these local? Is there an orchard of olive trees in Schaumburg?

  If the olives foreshadowed, the French onion soup and garlic puff pastry alerts me my lover will be selfish and, well, a bit of a disaster in bed. While the soup itself is flavorful, it’s not praiseworthy. Any competent chef should be able to make a French onion soup. The garlic puff pastry, though, is a disappointment. It crumbles. It disintegrates. The great joys of life, in my opinion, include being able to bite into that gruyere, soup encrusted rustic bread.

  Nervous and wishing my server would back off, stop checking on me every 30 seconds—it felt that way at least—the trout with squash risotto and sun-dried tomato pesto and the much anticipated pork belly arrive. The plates are beautiful, a flourish of colors. Then I bite into the overdone trout, which does not harmonize with the risotto or the assertive pesto. And the belly? The plate that soared my expectations. A disappointment. The dish should have been so good. The belly’s skin wasn’t crisp enough. The glaze missed the bite of bourbon. The onion rings—small, thin, limp—lacked anything an onion ring should be. An additional side of roasted maple-miso carrots added a delight of flavor and crunch. I tasted something satisfying finally, though that, perhaps, was worse, for then, I could see a talent. I could see beyond my lover’s tan and physique and get a glimpse of actual soul.

  After, I have little faith in dessert. My lover, I know, indulgent for himself only will not cuddle with me. This is not premonition, it is experience. The creme brûlée is so routine, I forget I’m eating it. The Liege waffle should be a delicious delight. You know how the story goes.

  While Fling promised a memory, one that expected me to look back with fondness, I’m instead left with regret, as if I were caught by my best friend the morning after, wearing the same clothes and bad breath, wondering myself why did I do that?

  Well, that was harsh, thought Drexel. Then he wondered if all restaurant reviews were generally negative. He did not read them, but like any review, he assumed the critic would find something wrong no matter what. And the review, if one goes by Esme’s statements that the restaurant was booked full for weeks, seemed to not affect business. He clicked back in the browser and then opened the Sun-Times review of Fling, written by Nolan Scotsdale.

  The ambitions of Fling, an acronym for fresh, local, inspired, nutritious grub are substantial. Chef Victoria Lopez, winner of America’s Next Great Chef, sets out to amaze and awe our tastebuds with interesting combinations, sparkles of wit, and bold aesthetics of plating. As the deviled eggs, drizzled with a chipotle cilantro sauce and stabbed with a crispy tortilla strip, sit before me, I take in the setting. High ceilings with dark wood paneled walls. The lights are high, giving the place a soft light. Yet, the booth I sat in felt insular, quiet. My own. I bite into the egg and wonder why at family gatherings the deviled eggs were so average. This egg is a wonder. The yolk filling has a bit of heat from chipotle powder, which meshes with the drizzle. And I liked biting into that tortilla. I could eat many more of these.

  The lamb, sourced from a farm near Springfield, gushed with flavor, bursting with mango and spice from the chutney. The lamb was medium-rare, hot, but red. While I have yet to understand the preference for smashed over mashed in potatoes, these mashed potatoes were a delight. Rosemary popped with a good garlic backbone, but they left the earthiness of the potato in full form. The maple-miso carrots were a revelation. Maple syrup, soy sauce, dijon mustard, and miso. How this marriage of flavors has eluded me for so long, I have no idea. A tad sweet with a bite of umami and a carrot cooked to perfection.

  I settled back, wondering how I would even think of dessert, so I contemplated the service. Friendly but not invasive. The staff were knowledgable about the plates and suggested wine or beer pairings. My water was never empty.

  The creme brûlée had a thick cover of caramelized s
ugar over a thin but rich custard. Just the way I like it. Here was no fuss. No mango. No cinnamon. No flambé. Custard and caramelized sugar. It was delicious.

  I walked back out into the night delighted with my visit to Fling. All the right notes. A bold yet classic menu. I do think Fling’s flirtation with Chicago will turn into the real thing.

  Drexel wondered if he was reading about the same restaurant between the two reviews. Both articles featured the same photograph of Vickie. She stood with her chef’s coat, the Fling logo on the upper-left chest, and wearing a black, flat cap backward. Her arms crossed, neither hand visible and she smiled. He clicked the browser closed. Picking up his phone, he looked up in his notes the number for Alexander Conti, the sous-chef and one of the last people to see Vickie alive. He dialed the number. A man answered. “Hello?”

  Drexel introduced himself, and Alex said he had been expecting his call. Drexel arranged to meet him the next morning in the station. He tapped the phone to hang up. Victor’s door opened, and he looked at Drexel and motioned for him to come to his office.

  His captain’s desk was clean. Photos of his wife and daughter sat in black frames. The computer. A small table with two chairs looked out onto Federal Street. Victor stood at his desk, clicking his mouse. “Pierce, what’s the update on the body you caught.”

  Drexel remained standing. He knew he had been unable to maintain the friendly tone with his boss, his mentor. He had grown cold, distancing himself from what he feared to be the inevitable pain. The evidence pointed to the captain’s corruption, but any involvement in Zora’s death was conjecture. A now dead IA detective had noted in a report that a man, presumably Victor, was seen harassing a photographer, presumably Zora, outside a now demolished apartment building. The report further indicated Victor was being investigated for corruption, working with a small number of cops in vandalizing and tormenting residents of that older building so that they would move out, leaving the developers an opportunity to replace it with a nicer, newer building—earning much more. The owners, the construction companies, the police, the politicians were all in on it to some degree or another. The evidence that Victor was a participant in the corruption was strong. He thought about Zora and pushed it back. He said, “Vickie Lopez. Chef. New restaurant. Shithead for a husband. He’s probably good for it, but nothing solid yet. Chasing down alibis and wits. Whoever did it, made it look like a suicide. That’s the only reason I’m not thinking her husband did it. No rage in that.”